


The Times, They are Changin'

by blackjacq (Annabeelee)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rebellion, Romance, Slow Burn, Violence, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-14 10:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabeelee/pseuds/blackjacq
Summary: Under the water, one can find freedom. Titles become meaningless, heritage is forgotten, castes are broken down as one surrounds themselves with the sea.Jun'ti seeks to escape the life he's been born into, to leave Zandalar and explore Azeroth free from the caste he did not choose. When the Horde arrives and he befriends a kind blood elf priest, he unknowingly becomes embroiled in something much bigger than he could have ever imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Preface: I will be the first to say I am not an expert in Warcraft lore. Most of the characters in this fic are going to be original. Quite a bit of the world-building will also be of my own design in order to fill in the gaps that the games have left. What I'm basically saying is that I'm taking a lot of liberties and if you want to read a story about one of the Big Named Characters in the franchise doing Big Cool Shit, then this isn't the fic for you. If you're like me, and want a fic about an average boy and a priest rando falling in love and then weird shit happens, then you're possibly in the right place. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Blizzard owns everything save for the original characters and the gaps in worldbuilding I've filled, but if they said they owned that too, I'm too poor to argue.  
> (unbeta'd forgive any mistakes, as i'm very rusty at writing at the moment)

Under the water, one can find freedom. Cradled in the soft caress of endless ocean, lit by the sun's warm embrace cascading endless sparkling diamonds among the waves, one becomes who they truly are. Titles become meaningless, heritage is forgotten, castes are broken down as one surrounds themselves with the sea. 

 

When Jun’ti is on land, he is the farmer's son. The peasant boy just shy of adulthood. He is locked in where he was born, too weak for warriorhood, untouched by the loa, destined to be married off at the word of an elder to continue his family name and till the land until his bones break for good and he is taken away by Bwonsamdi into the endless afterlife. He was born a peasant, he will die a peasant. 

 

But, beyond the jungle, the Golden City, the elders, his parents, the sands of the beach, engulfed in water, he is merely Jun’ti, merely his self and nothing more or less. 

 

He surfaces, gasping in warm air to his pleasantly starved lungs and opening his lightly stinging eyes to the mid-morning around him. The ocean is calm, and quiet, not a single wave rolling along the clear blue surface. He wades gently, one hand clinging to a small net containing a few clams, a crab, and small handfuls mussels he had foraged from the shallows. Gazing toward the shore, there is nothing among the sand save for lazy crustaceans and resting seagulls to chastise him for these simple pleasures. 

 

Toward the horizon, he sees the Golden Fleet disembark, but a glint from this distance. For a moment, he wonders what it is they are leaving for in such an ominous line, but he dismisses this thought with relative ease. What the army and the king do are none of his business. 

 

Having rested enough, Jun’ti takes a deep breath, arching and diving easily back under. Soon, he will go back to shore with his meager pickings. He will grab a few herbs along the way, and sell his modest wares to the desperate vagrants in Zorcolo. He will then go to the docks, and pick up any courier requests for a few more coin, and then he will go back to his parent's farm, and start this all over tomorrow. 

 

For now, he is content to stay where is free from it all just for a few moments more. 

 

* * *

 

 

His mother has a saying that he has heard consistently throughout his life. Whenever he or his sister would wonder about the royal family, or life as a priest or a warrior, whenever they would stop just shy of the Terrace of Speakers and stare openly at the Great Seal, his mother would be swift to remind them.

 

"What dey be doin' past Zocolo an' de docks ain't any a' our business." She would say, her raspy deep voice sharp as a knife, and hands strong and eager to tug them away from the steps. "We got utter tings to be worryin' about sides da places we ain't welcome." 

 

It was her mantra, her response to any gossip or scandal involving anyone or anything outside the village and their farm. So much had he heard this phrase and its iterations that any time he even looked toward the top of Dazar'alor, he could hear his mother voice chastising him, reminding him he had others things to do. What the King, the council, the army, and the priests do are none of his concern. Time was better spent worrying about others things.

 

Even when the sky burned as the fleet's cannons fired and the Princess Talanji returned escorted by a band of Horde soldiers, his mother had little interest. 

 

"You been in da city?" She asked, not even looking away from the pot she was stirring. He had ran home after seeing the procession and uproar Talanji had caused, pockets jingling with the few silves he had made that day and imagination buzzing with possibilities. Horde in Zandalar? It was unthinkable, yet he had seen the foreigners that had come with Talanji fly to the Great Seal. Who were they? How long would they stay? Why had they come?

 

Now, that rush of excitement died as he stared at his mother’s hard back. Dazar'alor faded into nothing, the elf, tauren, and orcs he had seen a distant memory and his mouth dried as he sluggishly came up with an answer. 

 

"I-I, well..." His mother turned, mouth set in a harsh line behind yellow worn fangs. She was at eye level, but with the intricate knit of her disappointed brow and narrowed eyes, she could have easily been baring down on him, a devilsaur in stature. 

 

"You been sellin' fish again to dem bums again?" She crossed thick arms over her deep chest, and the space between Jun’ti's shoulders froze in tight familiar fear. He was acutely aware of those precious silvers in his pocket, not having had a moment to hide them in the tree hollow. His mother had no magic, no connection to the loa, but if one were to ask Jun’ti, he'd freely admit she had some other sense that transcended anything else, an intuition so keen that even the most practiced panther could not hide from her. 

 

Jun’ti turned his gaze to the floor, ears drooping and he nodded. What else could he do? 

 

His mother clicks her teeth, shaking her head. "Ya suppose to be helpin' Yatisi wid his herd, but you were in de sea again!" Her words are worse that any wound, his face burning in shame. "Dat be de tird time dis month!" He murmurs an apology, and looks up, beginning to promise to go and help Yatisi tomorrow, but stops when he sees his mother's hand out-stretched expectantly. 

 

His throat clicks as he swallows. "Ma-" he starts, wanting to plead, but her hand, cracked and well worn, is steady. 

 

"Give it 'ere." He reaches into his pocket obediently, pulling out all but one of the silvers. His mother snatches her hand back as soon as the coin hits her skin, tsking as she goes to put it in the jar by the stove. They clink off the glass and the coins already present, a sound he’s come to hate as he quickly approaches adulthood.

 

The savings for a dowry. For a wife once the elders deemed him viable for one. The jar is dusty, barely half full, but his mother was keen on filling it for a good wedding. Since his sister left years ago, quietly in the night without even so much of a goodbye, Jun’ti was his parents only hope for grandchildren, for keeping the farm in the family.

  
A thought that kept him up well into the night.

  
"Not even wort da time." His mother comments snidely, mercifully leaving that argument in favor of finishing dinner. "Now forget dis fish sellin' and go get ya fa'da from dose damned dire’orns!" 

 

* * *

 

 

The sun has set, his parents are asleep, and Jun’ti slips from their hut to pad quietly to the tree hollow by their direhorn’s pen. His mother hadn't mentioned the incident to his father over dinner, merely saying she'd heard the Princess was back, to which father grunted tiredly before silence overcame them once more. Meals were often quiet since his sister left.

 

Checking around him for prying eyes, Jun’ti removed the small slab of bark from the opening of the tree’s hollow, pulling out a small threadbare sack gently and quietly as he could. It wouldn't do for keen ears to hear the modest jingle of it contents. It was everything he had, and should his mother find it, it’d be in that dusty jar within seconds.

 

With a sour grimace, he places the single silver into the purse. "One is betta den none." He murmurs to himself, hoping to quell the tumultuous disappointment in his gut. He shifts the interior to do a count, though he already knows exactly how much is in there. 7 gold, 24 silver, 92 copper. More than most in the village have to their family unless a marriage is involved. 

 

If everything went according to plan, he’d have no need of that.

 

He ties the bag close, careful of the strip of leather starting to wear thin. Placing it back in the tree, under the bark, he slopes to the hut, a different sort of mantra coming to mind. Keep your head down. Don't bother anyone. Work hard, and in a year or two, he'd have enough for a spot on a merchant goblin ship to Kalimdor. Just a little longer, and he'd leave it all behind. Dazar'alor, the farm, the jar, the expectations, the immovable life ahead of him would be an ocean behind him. 

 

Before stepping inside, he pauses, hand steadying himself on the splintering doorway and he casts his eyes behind him toward the star-studded sky and the waning moon. He says a quick prayer to Lun’alai, for himself, for his sister, with words she had taught him mere days before vanishing. There is no response, no acknowledgement of his quiet pleas, just the hope that they have reached the distant loa and he heads back inside to collapse thankfully on his bed.

 

Tomorrow, he would make more. Tomorrow, he would be closer to his goal.

 

He just had to work. He just had to wait. 

 

* * *

 

 

Jun’ti dreams of the ocean, of ships, and the endless orange horizon. Of the water fading from green to red and the gentle sea beginning to roll. Of two great serpents rising before him on either side, obscured by blinding light. Of two disparate forces wrapping around his middle pulling, _breaking-_

 

Jun’ti awakens to an axebeak crying by his window, his skin gleaming with cold sweat, and blood dripping from his nose.

 

* * *

 

The streets of the Dazar'alor docks are warm and slick from the mid afternoon rain and the few people who had been wandering at this time are all dockworkers, vagrants, guards, and, of course, Jun’ti, busy going about their day. 

 

"You best be slowin' down, short tusk!" Ozoro, a jovial guard, yells out to Jun’ti as he rushes past, his easy laughter evident in his tone. "Don't wanna slip on ya ass!" Jun’ti waves at him from over his shoulder, but disregards the warning. He's spent the morning mucking Yatisi's pens as he promised his mother. In his mind, it was wasted time that could've been spent diving and foraging, but overall necessary to keep his parents happy.

  
Puddles splash under his feet as he sprints up the steps to the grand bazaar, down to his last delivery. He plans out his next few hours, his path forward ingrained in his head with little effort needed to guide himself to his destination. Finish the delivery, hopefully get paid more for his expedience, return to the postmaster for his pay and keep any extra, check on any herbs just past the ci-

 

A group of workers carrying crates step into his path, and without a thought, Jun’ti hops onto the raised side of the road, never losing his balance as he runs nimbly on the narrow ledge. He steps onto the archway that separates the lower half of the Grand Bazaar and Little Tortolla, planning to dodge around the roadblock.

 

He’d done it dozens of times, in the pouring rain and the warmest sunshine. Why would this time be any different?

  
Perhaps it was the awkward way his foot landed on the archway and its sloped top, or even the slickness of the rain or something spilled upon there by the vagrants who usually rested here. Or even one of the workers, grunting as the crate slipped from his grasp and he moves to catch it, shoulders straining and shining with sweat that catches Jun’ti’s attention at just the wrong moment-

  
His ankle twists and foot skids, propelling him forward over the archway. There’s the fleeting second of profound understanding that he is about to fall, where everything stops and he helpless to save himself. He barely clears the railing, hitting it with his arm and before he can blink he has smacked into the ground with a sickening crunch, flat on his back.

  
His vision blurred, Jun’ti brings a hand to his head, or tries to, only to find his left arm searing with pain and unable to move. Everything hurt, even breathing. Each attempt to take a lungful of air was a gamble, punctuated by short grunt, for if his chest expanded too far, it was as if his ribs were stabbing into him.  His back felt shattered, and he was certain if he tried to move, his upper half would become separated from his legs.

  
Thick padding footsteps came into his senses through the miasma of ringing in his ears, and the stern beak of the fishmonger, Kruwa, swam into view. “Look who decided to drop in.”

 

“Very, huh, funny, mon.” Jun’ti struggled to speak, gasping at every other word. In true Tortollan fashion, Kruwa’s expression remained exhaustingly neutral as he looked the troll over.

 

“Can ya move, kid?” Kruwa asked, prodding Jun’ti with his walking stick directly in his absolutely broken ribs. He hissed, fighting to keep from squirming and causing more pain. Kruwa hmphed. “Guess not.”

 

“I will be, uh, fine,” Jun’ti was assuredly not fine, and the disbelief was expectedly apparent in Kruwa’s watery eyes,

 

“Jun, you can’t just lay here-“

 

“Jus need ta, huh, lay ‘ere-“

 

“Excuse me.” A different voice, speaking Zandali but with a strange unfamiliar accent that was both posh and far too proper for a natural speaker. Jun’ti struggled to lift his neck, freezing when he saw the source.

 

An elf, and not just any. He was one of the Horde who came with Princess Talanji, standing here, in Little Tortolla. He stood primly at Jun’ti’s feet, hands clasped behind his back and kind green eyes glowing softly as he took in the injured troll. Sharp elven features softened by a pleasant smile and a sun-kissed complexion, he affixed his gaze to Jun’ti’s own.

 

Jun’ti was quick to look away, flushing and supremely aware of his humiliating sprawled position on the dirty street before this satin robed foreigner. He could already hear his mother, tsking and scolding him for  _bothering_  a guest of the King.

_“Know ya place, Jun’ti. Keep ya ‘ead down, don’t give dem any reason to blame ya for dere troubles.”_

 

Bwonsamdi would being having his soul should his parents ever find out he even looked at the elf.

 

“I believe I could be of some assistance.” He said, pleasantly, as though it was everyday he’d seen a troll stupidly fall two stories. Kruwa shrugged.

 

“Knock yourself out, sin’dorei.” The elf nodded, and began to kneel, much to Jun’ti’s panic.

 

“I be fine!” Jun’ti protests loudly, despite the searing pain in his lungs from the effort. He flinches as the elf hits the street, his lovely deep red and gold trimmed robe immediately becoming wet. Loa help him, he’ll have to pay for that… “I be, huh, healin’ already. Just need ta-“

 

His protests trailed off, as a hand, gloved in the softest leather he had ever felt, ghosted his pounding crooked arm. The heat, the pain, began to abate, ebbing to a pleasantly warm tingling.

 

“Don’t fret.” The elf’s gentle tones only add to the trance like state overcoming his shivering form and Jun’ti is compelled to lie back and close his eyes. “I’m certain you do not have all day to lay in the street and wait to naturally heal.”

 

The touch moves, steadily, purposefully, up his arm, bringing with it another wave of indescribably soft sensation. As the hand continues onto his shattered ribs, Jun’ti is no longer on the hard street or even in Dazar’alor. He’s floating, succumbed to an endless sea, weightless and numb. There is nothing but soothing dark and he threatens to sink into abyssal depths, with nothing to guide him but the steady cadence of the elf.

 

“Just giving your natural regenerative abilities a boost.” There is no sound, no gulls from the harbor, or the shouting of merchants of their wares or even the steady staccato of his heart, just the rumblings of the elf. Jun’ti can barely make out the words, only the rhythm, distantly clinging to it to keep him from floating away. “I’m surprised you stayed conscious. Fracture in the arm, three broken ribs, a two twisted spinal discs… You must have one damnedable high pain tolerance.”

 

Jun’ti distantly recognizes himself being rolled onto his side, and that touch fluttering down his spine, but it mattered not. The anxiety over being helped by a King’s guest, the fear of his parents finding the sack in the tree hollow, whispering dread of being married off and stuck in Zuldazar for the rest of his life that always haunted him like a clinging shadow… It had all faded.

 

For just a moment, maybe the first moment in his existence, Jun’ti knew peace, cradled in this nothing and kept steady by a kind voice and a soft touch.

 

When the warmth began to withdraw, it was no shock Jun’ti tried to hold onto it, keep it over him. The world slowly slotted back into place, like someone sluggishly opening a door, letting in the light of the midday sun, the noise of the docks, the residual ache of his body-

 

“There we are.” Jun’ti opened his bleary unfocused eyes, blinking in the sun and seeing the feet of a few curious Tortollans standing off the side. He rolled onto his back gingerly, shocked at how little pain he felt. It was still present, but- “The worst of it has been mended. You should be completely fine in an hour or two.”

 

He nods, sitting up. He feels groggy. He feels wonderful. He feels awful. He feels-

 

He touches a hand to his cheek, the flush of embarrassment creeping into them as tears meet questing finger. He lets out a strangled noise, furiously rubbing them away. “Sorry, sorry-“

 

“You’re fine.” There’s a hand on his forearm, and Jun’ti peeks from behind it to see that benevolent smile again. “It’s a perfectly normal response to feeling the Light for the first time.”

 

Jun’ti nods, flinching again as he notices the growing wet patch and stain on the elf’s robes. “I not be havin’ anyting ta pay ya wit…”

 

“Oh, think nothing of it.” The elf stands gracefully, his wet robes slapping and adhering to his knees. Despite how jumbled the whole ordeal has Jun’ti, the elf is composed, short black hair slicked back, and face immaculate, free of blemishes or any sign of strain.

 

He had heard of elves in stories told by Kruwa and the other Tortollans, had heard of their extensive ears, slight forms, and hard angles from gossiping warriors. Jun’ti was struck by the alien features of the man before him, the tiny angular nose, the sharp cheekbones, the tiny round chin, the absence of fangs or tucks on the full mouth…

 

A compellingly ugly creature, all things considered.

 

A black gloved hand reaches toward Jun’ti, offered with a “Just happy to have been able to help”. Kruwa snorts off to the side, having been all but forgotten in the wake of this stranger.

 

“You should be grateful, kid.” The fishmonger starts, as Jun’ti reaches to take what’s offered. His fingers alone dwarf the elf’s entire hand, his thick digits brushing soft skin of his forearm, enclosing on the delicate wrist. “Not every day a holy priest heals a spastic idiot like you!”

 

The elf’s fingers circle on his thumb and the meat of his palm, barely encompassing any of it. Something about that image stirs uncomfortably warm in his gut, just barely a whisper under the ache of his still healing injuries. He gets to his feet, the elf’s surprisingly strong grip pulling and steadying him as he wobbles uncertainly. The pain blooms for a moment, but quickly retracts to a manageable level and Jun’ti straightens to his full height, his back popping loudly.

 

He gazes down, taken aback just so as he realizes he towers over the elf, several heads taller than him. Jun’ti takes this in and heat blooms across the back of his neck when he meets the elf’s curious gaze, the odd glint of… _something_  he can't describe in his expression.

 

Kruwa thankfully, interjects, breaking the moment. “What were you even in such a hurry for, Jun?” It was a smack across his head, a bolt of summer lightning waking him.

 

“My delivery!” Jun’ti cries, slapping his forehead with a closed fist. How long had he been laying there? How late was he? Swiftly, he grabbed the elf’s hand with both of his, bowing low enough to bring them over his. “You be havin' my thanks. I not be forgettin’ dis.” He murmured, head too low to catch the blush creeping into the elf’s face at the gesture.

 

He was off, dropping theirs hands and sprinting for the stairs, leaving the elf stammering a ‘you’re welcome’ but he barely heard. His legs were slower than before, but he took the steps to the grand bazaar two at a time. He had to hurry. He had coin to earn.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to re-write approximately 4 times until I was happy and now its longer than I thought it would be 
> 
> Oops ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> (unbeta'd ya know who it goes)

Theran shouldn't be shocked at how easily he has taken to Zandalar. He may be from the temperate forests of the Eversong woods, but he's traveled the world, or worlds even, from the frigid sheets of Northrend to the alien mushrooms of Zangamarsh; what's one more muggy oppressive jungle surrounded by water?

 

The air was crisp at night, weighted during the day by condensation and humidity, but now fresh and cool without the sun beating overhead. He leans along the raised side of the walkway around the seal, breathing deep and calm as he ponders the aura of Dazar'alor. Somewhere, insects call and chatter, leaves rustle and whisper, and in these quiet moments, all of Azeroth seems at peace. 

 

"So this is where you're hiding." The sky is studded with strange constellations and a waning moon, and Theran glances over his shoulder to the Tauren addressing him. She clops next to him, lighting her worn pipe and casting a brief orange glow on her white-patched tan fur that sways delicately in the breeze. Her tail swishes to and fro, upsetting the loose brown tunic in a mesmerizing manner.

 

"Looking for me, have you?" Theran asks coyly, batting his lashes with a smirk as she puffs a few times, smoke beginning to coil from her pipe. The bittersweet scent of the Razor Hill tobacco wafts into the air and she gives a nod with a 'hmph' and a long pull. 

 

"Rokkash has been looking for you." She corrects, letting the smoke lazily exit her wet nostrils, giving Theran a raised brow. He chuckles, and turns back to the city under them. Somewhere, a pterodaxx calls to its flock, and the Streets of Dazar'alor are empty save for a few meandering drunks. Years ago, he would have been one of them, but now...

 

"And what, pray tell, does the dear Commander want with little old me?" Theran inquired, gesturing at himself in an exaggerated fashion. "Me, a mere lowly priest of untainted desires and ambitions, what could the orcish warrior want  _me_  for?" The tauren rolled her eyes, face still impassable around her pipe, but Theran's smile widened as the spark of humor in her golden eyes. 

 

"Untainted desires my backside." She snorted, "Were you not the one excited to finally see the home of the, and I quote, 'Biggest roughest trolls in all of Azeroth, ripe for my perusing'?" She mocked his trilled 'r's and theatrical speech, adding a bombastic wave at herself with a delicate sweep of her free hand. 

 

"A grand mockery, my dearest Talia, Sunwell of my heart, Light of my life. Have you ever thought about theater?"

 

"Only if my part consists of prissy blood elves of unnatural lechery." Theran gasps, over-dramatic and mouth agape. 

 

"Unnatural lechery?" He exclaims loudly, feigning indignation. "I am a man of the Light! Why, its even in my very name! Theran Lightspire, no one could be more pure and holy than I!" He finishes with a sweeping turn, crossing his arms over his chest and nose held high in mock offense. 

 

The night has a pleasant chill to it, and thankfully he had thought to change out of his dirtied robes before the sun had fallen for the day. They were not beyond repair, but he wasn't worried about them; he had more robes, and more tailors eager to make him a new set. He may even keep it as is, another to add to the hodge-podge collection of memories. 

 

Not every day he gets to put his talents to use outside of catastrophe. He never thought when he began training in the holy art of healing that he would become a war healer, sent off from one crisis to the next with little reprieve in order to witness and repair the bodily damage that combat and ruthless cruelty could cause. To spend even just one moment helping a simple accident, to care for someone's every need instead of just fixing what will keep them  _alive_ and then moving to the next...

 

A large hand on his shoulder breaks him from his thoughts, Talia having snuck up on him after the long silence. 

 

"It's good to see you in such spirits, Lightspire." Her grip is warm, familiar, like returning home after a long tour. It was by the grace of the Light that Talia was always sent on missions with Theran in her company. Maybe it was due to their chemistry, their team work, two patrons of the Light, a priest and a paladin who knew how the other worked. Maybe it was their similar ideologies, creating a synergy of decisions and opinions. 

 

Or it could merely be that Theran has a penchant for arguing with every decision made by anyone who is not the tauren. That could also be a contributing factor.

 

"Perhaps Zandalar is more agreeable to my constitutions than Argus." He tossed a long glance at one of the male guards, standing stiffly some yards away, lowering his voice. "The view is certainly more agreeable..."

 

A laugh bellowed from Talia, her passive expression finally cracking as she held onto his shoulder to keep from doubling over. He shushed her, unable to stop grinning as the guard glared at them suspiciously. 

 

"You can't just say something like that so openly here!" She chastises between gulps of air, grabbing his arm and leading him into a quick stride away from prying ears. 

 

"Oh, I said it in Orcish."

 

* * *

 

Had he really been all that different? He supposed he never noticed, have little time or energy to self-reflect in these past months over his general demeanor. There were people to save, villages to rebuild, lives to mourn-

 

_I can save him. I know I can. I've seen the power in the shadows, Talia. I can bring him back if I just reach into the nothing-_

 

The skin under his gloves shift at the memory, and he pulls them closer to himself as he and Talia leisurely walk around the Seal. It was...happening more and more. What he had once thought of a stain that moved up his fingers like an infection wriggling within the epidermis and muscle tissue at the tips of his digits. 

 

At first, he had ignored it, hoping rigorous meditation within the Light and continued practice in the holy arts would keep him safe, would cleanse him eventually. He donned the leather gloves up to past his forearm, never taking them off except to bathe, and even then he rarely examined them. He stopped seeking nightly companionship, cut himself off from people, and ignored the tingling, the  _writhing..._

 

Perhaps he had changed. 

 

"How bad has it gotten?" A mind reader, surely, Talia could see every guarded emotion as if he were wearing it upon his sleeve. He wrings his hands, wincing at the sensitivity as the soft interior of the gloves rubs his skin. She's eyeing him, puffing on her pipe, gaze trained on his crossed arms with an attentiveness he has quickly realized is both a blessing and a curse.

 

_"You've told no one, yes?"_

 

_"Theran, you can't jus-"_

_"Swear to me, Talia. Swear this does not leave this room."_

_"...I swear to you."_

 

"I've been bet-"

 

"Show me."

 

Theran shifted uncomfortably, pulling her over to a secluded corner of the balcony, well out of sight of any guards or late-night troubled sleepers. With a stuttered trepidation, he pulls the thick deep-blue sleeve of his robe, and as he is rolling down the leather off his hand, he winces as he sees the skin. 

 

"Oh Theran," She breathes, the resigned sadness evident in her quiet whisper as she softly touches his bare arm. She fixes him with her concerned gaze, deep yellow eyes highlighted by the soft violet glow coming from his arm. "It's getting worse."

 

* * *

 

Even in a foreign land so far removed from Durotar, Rokkash's quarters seem to have been lifted directly from the orcish capital. A roaring fire pit, rich reds and browns, the scent of hot earth and metal all coalesce to take the individual out of Zandalar and back to the Barrens. 

 

Of course Rokkash couldn't stand the grandeur of Dazar'alor, Theran observed with a chuckle as he fingers a cloth Horde emblem hanging behind the orc's war table. 

 

Behind him, the door creaks open followed by the heavy footsteps of thick boots on wooden floor, though Theran has no need to turn around. 

 

"Rokkash, Rokkash," Theran began breaking the silence, spinning dramatically to give the already exacerbated orc a saucy flutter of his eyelashes. This earned him an eye roll and a heavy defeated sigh. "High commander of the Horde and of my soul, to be in thine presence, to witness the amber of thine eyes and the hue of thine form, as green as spring grow-"

 

"Is this what you've been doing all day?" Rokkash snorts, stepping forward.

 

"Of course not. Just the past ten minutes. May I finish?"

 

"Absolutely not. Do you expect poetry to sway me?" 

 

"Not in the slightest. If I wanted to sway you on anything, you would have found me laying recumbent upon your bed, nude and tumescent." 7 years ago, Rokkash would've have choked at that, fighting to not turn a horrid shade of puce and stomping out of the room angrily, passionately. Now, He just huffs, striding past Theran's open arms and flirtations to his war table.

 

"And what makes you believe that would have any effect on my opinion."

 

"Experience? Memories?" Theran strides over as he gesticulates, Rokkash watching him warily. He perches himself upon the edge of the table with a practiced sweep of his robes, leaning back with a large sliver of his chest exposed. He ran a delicate finger down his sternum slowly, voice lowering huskily. "Would you like me to retell you any in particular?"

 

There it was, the hint of red dusting Rokkash's cheeks, heat dancing in his dark gaze as he ponders Theran silently. There's a tightness to his square jaw and he wets his lips with a soft pink tongue but ultimately shakes his head and lowers his eyes to the war table. 

 

"How about you get off my table and we have a talk?" It was a demand in the guise of a suggestion, one Theran knew was never the start to anything good, but to be ignored would mean something worse. So he slides off the table, and stands square with Rokkash, arms crossed, and he waves a hand to signal he's waiting. 

 

"A little bird told me you had a run in with a civilian this afternoon." It was Theran's turn to tsk and roll his eyes. He should have known.

 

"Barely two days here and you've already wormed your way into having the guards spy on me." Rokkash shifts his lower jaw so his protruding fangs rub his upper lip, an old tell of his generally stable mood. 

 

"It's a precaution," the orcs growls, squaring his shoulders and straightening. "One I clearly need to take." Theran's stomach tightens as Rokkash meets his eyes. "I can't have you getting us thrown out of this city, Lightspire."

 

"Oh please." Absolutely ridiculous, he's never been chastised for doing his work before. "I merely healed a boy who had fallen-"

 

"And what caste was he from?" Shocked at the vitriol Rokkash had cut him off with, Theran gave a short incredulous laugh as he blinked rapidly in disbelief.

 

"How should I know-"

 

"That's exactly the problem!" Rokkash all but screamed, catching Theran completely off-guard. He wipes a rough green hand over his face, composing himself before continuing to speak in a lower volume. "We're not in Highmountain anymore. We're not here to help these people. They don't need us. This is an ambassadorial mission to convince a very large navy to ally with the Horde in battle and they have no reason not to throw us to the sea because you're off gallivanting through the capitol city, breaking social laws that get a regular citizen marooned in a desert in broad damned daylight!"

 

Theran's nostrils flare, brow creasing and rage bubbling deep in his stomach. He slams his hands down onto the war table, papers and pins flying. "And you just expect me to-to just leave a helpless person lying the-"

 

"Yes!" Rokkash cuts him off, exasperated.  "There are others, higher ups who need healing. You-" He prods Theran in the collarbone hard enough to bruise over the table, but the elf will be damned if he makes acknowledgement of it. "Choosing some street rat over an ill shaman or one of the councilors means you view that peasant as more important than them; an insult our most gracious host doesn't take kindly to."

 

"But-"

 

"And neither will I." Rokkash snaps with an air of finality. Theran wants to scream, to shout, to yell that this isn't what he's trained for, and Rokkash should know that after  _seven years-_

But he can see the exhaustion in his old friend's eyes, the way he won't meet Theran's raging gaze anymore, staring off just over his shoulder. These aren't his orders. Rokkash has yelled at Theran a fair few times over his insubordination, fraternization, blatant disregard for the cultural norms surrounding social divisions, but it was always in a sort of resigned irritation. This wasn't Rokkash yelling at him, lecturing him like a child. 

 

It was Windrunner.

 

"Do you understand?" The orc's voice is softer than before, all but pleading and its as if they are no longer in this room, in Zandalar, but in another nameless inn, lying together, and Rokkash is giving him the same pained expression.

_"This is_   _it, Theran, the last time...I can't-"_

 

And Theran bows his head, closing his eyes to banish the thought.

 

"Of course I do." He starts, nodding, words just as soft, "I do maintain the right to disagree," No amount of sympathy for the pressure put on Rokkash or guilt at what he has put his friend through could shut his mouth, however, and those gentle tones shift quickly into a sneer as he locks eyes with Rokkash "as a priest of the Light, sworn to heal and protect those in need regardless of class, birth, or caste, but if disregarding  _everything_  I stand for is what it takes to secure a navy for our Dark Lady..." 

 

They glare at one another, daring the other to break first. In another room, someone coughs amid the whisper of the fire, and after a few tense seconds, it is Rokkash who grunts and looks away. He shakes his head again, shuffling some orders and letters around the pocked wood. "I'm giving you one chance, Lightspire. I find out you're going your own way again, and I'm sending you on scouting duties as Gallywix's personal assistant." 

 

Theran's eyes narrow. "You're despicable. I hate that little green sausage."

 

To that, Rokkash lets out a bark of a laugh, the hard crease of his brow loosening. "Are you saying you wouldn't want to take a ride on his infamous  _war trike?_ " Theran made a disgusted face at the insinuation.

 

"I never want that image any where near my mind ever again, please and thank you, Rok." 

 

"What's the problem? I've heard its quite powerful, large even, like a stall-"

 

Theran childishly put his fingers to his ears "No, no, I can't believe this." He turns dramatically, headed for the door, Rokkash, snorting in gruff giggles behind him. "An assault on my delicate  _virgin_ ears-!"

 

As he lays a hand to the exit, Rokkash calls out, "Wait." Theran does not move to face him, the sudden shift from raucous laughter to sobering seriousness has him growing cold. 

 

"Did you need me for something else?" Theran inquires after a biting moment, hand upon the door frame and words a whisper. He doesn't need to see Rokkash to know he's fidgeting, fighting for words. 

 

"We haven't spoken since..." The inn in Dalaran. He doesn't finish the thought, but Theran doesn't need him to. "How are you?"

 

Theran's had tightens on the wooden frame. Rokkash had been many things to him in the years they had known each other. A rival, an ally, a confidant, a lover, but here, in the quiet quarters among the soothing crackle of a dying fire and the songs of cicadas just outside the window, he spoke as a friend. 

 

And Theran honestly wished he wouldn't.

 

"I'm fine, Rok." he lies smoothly, still staring vacantly into space. "I'm sorry, I'm quite tired. We can talk later." Rokkash mumbles something in agreement submissively, and Theran leaves without another word. In all fairness, it wasn't exactly a lie at that very moment. 

 

* * *

  

 

It's mid-morning, the steam of the first light has dissipated as the sun climbs towards it zenith above the jungle. The sky is clear blue, the village is abuzz with daily work, and Jun'ti weeds the melon crops, envisioning the sea and a rocking ship beneath his feet. 

 

He plans his day as he toils and works, wondering if he should check on the growth of the river stalks he'd been tending to, or head into the city to see what odd jobs he could find. New merchant ships had come in, following the Horde; he may be able to secure a delivery or two for them, maybe for more than one of the regular goblins would pay him. He had no obligations once he was finished weeding, the day open to his whims.

 

Jun'ti pulls his hand back with a gasp, a sharp pain emanating from a thorn of a weed sticking to the meat of his palm. Hissing as blood begins trickling from it, he pulls the offending sliver from his skin, trotting over to the wooden bucket sat close to the hut. He chastises himself as he crouches down, pulling out a well worn rag and wiping away the coagulated dirt and blood before the wound has a chance to close.

 

It's shallow, he determines as he examines the cut. It would be healed within the hour without a trace of ever existing, and for that Jun'ti is more that grateful. He flexes his now clean fingers, wincing at the slight pain and in the bright morning sun, he can almost see the dark leather gloved hand of the elf in his.

 

He thought about it often, as though it were a plague of curiosities that refused to leave his mind's eye, in the few days since the incident. Jun'ti couldn't quite figure out why, though. He'd met goblins who were all tiny, barely the size of children, and had barely thought about said crossings in the slightest. Perhaps to finally see an elf of tall grand tales and such high class renown be so willing to grasp such a delicate hand betwixt his...

 

He flexes his fingers again, feeling his thoughts trying to make connections of ideas he still hadn't been made aware of. He'd always been small, frail-looking in comparison to his father, even his mother, while being the same height, held more of a figure than he did. His ribs had always been eager to stick out when he stretched and his legs were too long while his thin arms were too short. 

 

He made a good runner, but that meant nothing to a farmer.

 

Jun'ti caught sight of his reflection in the water of the bucket, prodding at the youthfully round cheeks that stubbornly refused lessen. He touched his short chin, traced his left  tusk which had never grown out like its twin, instead curling toward his mouth, ran a hand through the strip of black hair atop his head between limp ears, caught his own blue gaze where it stared back as him, glowing dully.

 

_A sickly thing, aren't you?_

 

He scowled, water splashing loudly as he threw the rag back into the bucket. His reflection became no more, just disturbed cloudy liquid and a slowly ballooning cloth. He watched, disgust at his own outburst climbing his shoulders and the tips of his ears as the rag began to sink from the weight. It hit the bottom of the bucket, and the surface of the water calmed and all Jun'ti was left with was the same frowning reflection. 

 

_Do you think they'll care any more about you in Kalimdor?_

No, he answers back to the little voice in the back of his thoughts, always ready to chastise him. No, it won't be different; nothing about his will change. But he would be anonymous, no ties, no family. He could become whatever he wanted, could go where ever he liked. He had to try, he had to escape-

 

A soft 'thlup' drew his attention back to the water, the cloth laying at the bottom of the bucket twitching. He leans over it, curious as his heart begins to pick up its pace. Had a lizard fallen in, he wonders, twisting a finger in his ear when a low buzzing began to tickle it.

 

He reaches in, grasping the soaked rag, pulling it dripping from the water. It felt as if there was nothing in it, and peering back into the bucket, he sees only the slow swirl of grit and dirt. Making a hum of confusion, Jun'ti opens the hand grasping the cloth, unraveling it just to be sure. 

 

An eye amidst the rough worn fabric of the cloth, like it had been sewn into it, stared viciously at him from a reptilian slit of a pupil.

 

With a strangled yell, Jun'ti falls back in shock, foot kicking the bucket over and the cloth flying from his hand. He catches himself on his elbows, the buzzing in his ears drowning out the birds calling from the jungle and the noise of the village. His heart hammers in his chest as he turns around, scrambling for the cloth on his hands and knees where it landed a short distance behind him. He clenches it in his hand, sitting up on his knees and ripping the cloth straight-

 

Its empty. 

 

Jun'ti turns it round and round, his heart slowly falling back to a normal beat and the ringing in his hears clearing up. The rag is just a rag, dirty and drenched, but nothing suspect to be found. "What-"

 

"Jun'ti!" He freezes, his mother's shriek slamming into him like an irate direhorn. "What ya be doin', ya fool of a boy?!" He can hear her stomping over, and he crumples the rag in his hand. "Why ya be knockin' over da bucket?" 

 

"S-spider." Jun'ti lied, getting shakily to his feet. He felt like he had run halfway across the whole island. He turns to face his mother, her arms crossed over her chest and mouth set in a thin line around her fangs. "Jumped at me." He tastes copper, and reaches up to his nostril as his mother's arm's fall to her side, concern over coming her irritation. 

 

"Jun'ti?" She gasps, rushing over to him as he pulls away his hand, stomach dropping at the sight of his wet skin. She tips his head up, her voice soft and worried as she fusses over him, but Jun'ti barely hears it.

 

He's bleeding again. 

 

* * *

 

Jun'ti wanders the streets of Dazar'alor, aimless, too distracted to do anything worthwhile, but no where near ready to return home for the evening. His head was no longer swimming, the vague ache in his nostrils now a distant memory of the morning and his strange vision still swimming in the forefront of his mind. 

 

It had to have been nothing; just a strange trick of the light brought on by the heat and his over-active imagination. His mother has fussed, but she quelled her worry, lying that he'd smacked himself in the face when he fell. She took it, made him get fetch more water from the well and sent him off for the day. 

 

"Ya already done enough today." She sniffed dismissively when he offered to finish the weeding she had picked up on. "Jus' don't be goin' swimmin', or ya might be bleedin' more an' I don't need a ta be worryin' ya got eaten by sharks!"

 

The nose bleeds had been happening since he was small. Usually when he awoke from a foggy dream he barely remembered, cot covered in rusty blood and his father holding a wet rag to his nose as his sister and mother stood worriedly behind him. The village elder had told his parents it was merely a 'weak nose' and a 'soft brain'. 

 

"Prone ta injury an madness," The old troll had stated knowingly, reclining and smacking his lips loudly. "Don' be boterin wit 'im. Ya 'ad one strong child. Send 'im down da rivah!" He finished with a bark of a laugh, giving his parents the absolute blessing to abandon their son should he prove too much of a hassle. 

 

Jun'ti had been five. 

 

_"Dey gon get ridda me, Muda!" He was blubbering, snot and blood mixing disgustingly with the downpour coming off his eyes. His sister took his head in her hands, crouched before him._

 

_"If dey be gettin' rid a you, Jun, den dey be gettin' ridda me too." She assured him, wiping his cheek dry with her thumb. "You bettah den anyting in dis jungle an if ma'da an pa'da tink dey bettah off wit out ya, den dey bettah widout me too!"_

 

His father and mother had disregarded the suggestion from the elder, and Jun'ti got better, stronger. Not as strong of the rest of the children in the village, but he grew in other ways; prone to healing from the usual scrapes and cuts of play quickly, and fighting off illness without issue where others were laid in bed for weeks. The nose bleeds lessened more and more until they all but stopped save a few nights here and there.

 

He's not had two so close together in years, and never one in the middle of the day, fully awake. He used to wonder if it was to Loa, but none ever answered him during the testing with the priests or in his own prayers. He had even begun hoping that someone in Kalimdor may have an answer for him, though, coupled with the visions, maybe he really was just soft in the head...

 

Taking a mindless turn into some back alley, Jun'ti becomes aware of the footsteps swiftly approaching him seconds too late. A hand, massive and strong, grabs him by the the back of his neck, and Jun'ti cries out as he is slammed into the hard stone wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed Subplots: the Chapter. 
> 
> As always, I appreciate any questions, comments, and/or concerns. Let me know your thoughts so I know I'm not shouting into a void and thank you to all who left comments/kudos on the last chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Ending Thoughts: I hope I wrote the Trollish accent okay and in a good emulation of whats in the game. I also spent more time figuring out Jun'ti's goddamn name than I did LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE. But then I was running around Dazar'alor and there's a vendor named Ko'lin and another named Brit'ny so I figured whatever I settled on would be just dandy.
> 
> If you made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed. I enjoy these characters and writing this, so I'll probably continue. Please feel free to leave any questions, comments, or concerns as I require constant validation. I honestly expect no one to read this, so even the smallest feedback is super appreciated.


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